“Of course there’s no great difference between restaurants in alleys and apple blossoms in Normandy!” she commented.
“Not so much as you’d think,” he smiled.
It was eleven before they were back at the house. Then Stuyvesant wanted a rarebit and Frances made it, so that it was after one before Don reached his own home.
Not until Nora, in obedience to a note he had left downstairs for her, called him at seven-thirty the next morning did Don realize he had kept rather late hours for a business man. Bit by bit, the events of yesterday came back to him; and in the midst of it, quite the central figure, stood Miss Winthrop. It was as if she 54 were warning him not to be late. He jumped from bed.
But, even at that, it was a quarter-past eight before he came downstairs. Nora was anxiously waiting for him.
“You did not order breakfast, sir,” she reminded him.
“Why, that’s so,” he admitted.
“Shall I prepare it for you now?”
“Never mind. I haven’t time to wait, anyway. You see, I must be downtown at nine. I’m in business, Nora.”
“Yes, sir; but you should eat your breakfast, sir.”